


happiness is a homemade thing

by ace_corvid



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Cooking, Gen, Grandfatherly Love, Grandparents & Grandchildren, Healthy Coping Mechanisms, I really do just make Jason work through his emotions huh, Scarecrow's Fear Toxin (DCU), Therapy through Cooking, Well would you look at that, recovering from a panic attack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-12
Updated: 2020-05-12
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:13:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24147961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ace_corvid/pseuds/ace_corvid
Summary: Jason recovers from being hit with fear toxin with a good recipe; grandfatherly affection, fond memories, a spoonful of ignoring his issues and a pinch of salt.Alternately; Cooking is excellent therapy.
Relationships: Alfred Pennyworth & Jason Todd
Comments: 10
Kudos: 166





	happiness is a homemade thing

**Author's Note:**

> gang gang i am just on fire this quarantine  
> and by that i mean i am being productive with literally anything that is not schoolwork  
> anyway i hope you like this! enjoy!

Jason enjoys cooking.

Cooking is good. Cooking is simple for the most part, a relaxing sort of chemistry with a recipe to follow. It's something to do with his hands, occupies him enough that he can ignore that they're shaking. He wouldn't call it mundane, per say, but compared to back alley shoot outs and the like, sautéing just doesn't compare. It's all too easy to get lost in the monotony of the actions, and he likes that he doesn't have to think too much about it. And in the end, you have something you can enjoy, even if it was just the calming effects of the experience.

If Jason fails and, say, burns a dish, nothing awful will happen. Unless it's truly inedible, he eats it anyway, because every ingredient counts, and food doesn't just get thrown out. There's no grand awful consequence if Jason isn't up to scratch. No one dies, the world is not in peril; it's just him and his slightly overcooked lasagna.

Sometimes Jason cooks when he's not hungry. On the days when the thought of eating goes hand in hand with the fun idea of violently throwing up, sometimes he desperately needs the distraction of following through the process anyway. It's literally anything else to think about, after all. He doesn't waste the food, either. He doesn't really want for money these days, but if living in the lavishness of Wayne Manor couldn't ease his old street habits, he doubted they were going anywhere at this point. He has plenty of neighbours who will appreciate it, so he usually just gives it to one of them. They were untrusting of the gifts at first; nothing comes for free of course, and the people of Crime Alley knew that better than most. But as time passed, eventually they seemed to realise that the price really was just that it calmed Jason's nerves a little, and they were plenty grateful for the good meals.

It probably helped that Alfred was the one who taught Jason how to cook. Not that he excelled at it by any measure at 13, 14, 15 years old, but the memories of helping out Alfred in the kitchen were some of the fondest he had. He was probably just imaging it, but it had always felt like the food had tasted better on those days. The warm feeling in Jason's chest whenever he cooked any of the recipes Alfred had taught him made them rare favourites he only made on the worst days, as not to lessen the intensity of the feelings. If he made them too much, he might get used to it, and he clings to the comforting nostalgia like a lifeline, terrified to waste it.

And so, on the days where his mind is too loud to sink his teeth into a good book, idle TV just doesn't work, and he's too exhausted both mentally and physically to go and find a good fight; he turns to cooking.

Today is one of those days.

Jason knows plenty of recipes. The ones he used to make with Alfred are ingrained in his mind, right down to the accurate measurements. Those he could never forget. Alfred then gave him a box of even more recipes recently, just after Jason started growing closer to the family once again. He savoured the learning of them, when Lazarus green rose in the corners of his eyes, when his hands itched for violence rather than a spatula. He let himself go through the motions again and again until they were perfected, and then let himself play around with the presentation and the plating, until he had lots of good food and less homicidal urges. He'd ran out far too quickly, given the amount of recipes there were, but he was just an angry person these days and what helped helped.

He ignores that he remembers which of the dishes are Bruce's favourites, and pretends not to know that really, Bruce would take a good plate of nachos over most of them. Not as Batman though; Batman does not eat nachos. He can't _stand_ that he knows which of these Dick loves likewise. He doesn't know any of Tim's or Cassandra's or Duke's favourites, but he wonders if they're in here too, and on his better days, tries to make guesses to which ones they are. Tim is a rich kid, but he's also a little goblin, so it really could be a toss up between the fancier ones and the simpler. Duke's is definitely on the more simple side; Narrows kids don't know good food any better than Crime Alley kids, after all. Cassandra could really easily like any, and it was probably rooted in sentimentality rather than taste.

He doesn't know any of Damian's favourites either but still wagers he knows how to make some of those ones at least. Talia had found his penchant for cooking amusing, in the lost days. She allowed him to do it and had the ingredients bought for him, but only for so long as it benefited her, due to it's calming influences. She _personally_ taught him no recipes, he didn't even know if she knew any, but she _had_ left him some left on paper for him to learn.

The first one she ever gave him, all of the ingredients had been laid out for him along with it. He remembered being slightly confused by tsampa, but made it again and again until Talia told him he'd gotten it right. He could make it like a local by the end of his time there. Treats like umm ali and sanga bhaley never went wasted in the stronghold, and full dishes like momo and sha shogok got passed around too. He'd made some allies in Nanda Parabat that way.

Point is, if some of Damian's favourites weren't knocking around in all of those recipes, he'd eat his foot. Talia could be funny like that.

Still, he'd kept every single recipe. And then on his world tour, he'd gathered some more. On top of that with the one's Alfred had given him, Jason had a full menagerie of food he could make whenever the world was too much.

So yeah. Jason cooked.

And here he is tonight, recipe picked out, and going through the motions of making the meal. He'd briefly entertained the notion of making kunafeh, but the spices could be finicky and he wanted something simpler tonight. He didn't really need the paper out on the counter top; the only recipe that wasn't memorised was Alfred's waffle recipe, for the obvious reasons. No one would ever tell him, but they tasted like paste. The only thing the man couldn't make perfectly. But he liked having the instructions clear and sure before him; it gives him less opportunity to get lost in his own head.

The tremors are worse than usual tonight, but that makes sense. Jason would usually idly sing along to the radio as he worked, but his voice hurts, throat hoarse and raw from so much screaming, so he stays quiet. The radio still drolls on though, spouting a slightly liminal and staticky rendition of ABBA, that plays a little ominously over the atmosphere of the room. A fog stays over his head thick like cotton, a detachment from reality he's not even sure he wants to dispel.

He numbly acknowledges the presence entering the room behind him, but does not turn around. Their footfalls almost echo in his mind, and it doesn't occur to him to check who has entered until a wrinkled hand was placed over his on the counter.

Jason turned to meet Alfred's kind eyes, which he could see were filled with concern in the low lamplight. He imagines that Alfred doesn't find anything reassuring in his face.

“My dear boy, you should be resting.” Alfred says it like he's scolding him, but there's no admonishment to be found on his face. Just worry.

“I'm not sleeping tonight Alfred.” Jason replies. His voice sounds a little slurred to his own ears. He continues to fiddle with the ingredients before him to distract himself with that fact. It was a weakness, and weakness only got you killed.

No, stop thinking like that. Make the meal. Focus on the cooking. That's all he needs to do.

“You're shaking.”

Jason is silent in response. He is, after all, shaking like a leaf. Not much he can do about it really. ABBA continues to fill the awful quiet he leaves behind.

“Until we are quite sure the toxin has left your system,” Alfred reasons, gently drawing his hands away. “Perhaps you should avoid the kitchen knives, lad.”

“I'm fine, Alfred.” He lets a little steel enter his voice. If he stops cooking now, who knows where his mind will wander to? Better to keep his focus here, on the bell peppers, knife be damned. God knows, he's had worse than a little cut. Alfred's grip on his hands, though gentle, is firm, however.

Jason wouldn't let anyone else coddle him like this, but it's Alfred. Even on his worst days, nothing had ever tarnished his favourite memories of cooking with him, apart from perhaps a bittersweet sadness that he would never get to again. Jason doesn't want to hurt him, and maybe just a little, wishes he didn't want to hurt other people too.

Fuck Scarecrow. Fuck his fear toxin. Fuck him for breaking Jason's rebreather.

Jason did not want to be alone tonight god damn it.

Cautiously, Alfred takes the knife and turns to the bell peppers. He's just as dexterous with a knife as Jason with, probably just as dangerous with it too. Alfred sure had lived a life. He expertly chops the peppers, much faster than Jason would have managed in this state, and directs Jason to some of the other ingredients on the table.

“Together, then.” His age is present in his voice, so different to how he usually sounds, and there's a sadness in his face. Sucking in another trembling breath, Jason blinks some of the wetness out of his eyes. Alfred staunchly refuses to let him pick up another knife, muttering and grumbling about how he'll hurt himself under his breath. It's just like old times.

Jason never thought he'd get to do this again. He doesn't let himself dwell on it though, ignoring the maelstrom of emotions that hover just under his skin, the good and the bad alike. He cuts it all off.

Jason resolutely refuses to think about what he saw in his hallucinations, rather focusing on the onion in front of him. What a nice onion. He lets his mind drown in the muscle memory of the technique, getting lost in the actions that give him the beautiful sweet release of not having to think.

It's nice, cooking with Alfred again, in a way that isn't so bogged down with nostalgia. There still is some, but it's of the more comforting variety; his child laughter echoing in his ears rather than the telltale shrieking cackles of the Joker, a grating, nauseating sound, that goes hand in hand with the countdown timer of a bomb. He wonders if Alfred feels just as pleasantly lost in time as Jason does. It's slightly disorientating, but warmth takes root in Jason's chest as Alfred nudges his shoulder to Jason's, grounding him in reality in a way not even dicing could.

He's calmer, by the time it's in the oven. He isn't shaking, and his mind isn't immediately drawn to what he had seen under the influence of Scarecrow's fear gas. He's a little safer to let his consciousness float.

“My dear boy,” Alfred's voice is fond, and some of the worry has drained out of it. He's fiddling with the box that Jason keeps all the paper slips of his recipes in. “Where did you manage to find quite so many recipes?”

“World tour, don't you worry about it Alfred.” Jason's tone is steadier. He sounds more like himself than he had twenty minutes ago. Give him another ten and he'd be right back to cracking jokes to deal with his trauma. God bless arguably healthy coping mechanisms, huh?

“Well, I'd quite like to give some of them a try, I should think. “Alfred says, smiling. “And I did so enjoy having some help in the kitchen again. Master Tim did used to offer, but I found he was often more hindering than helpful.”

“That's what you get from rich kids.” Jason chuckles, but there's no bite to it. He gets along much better with all of them these days, including Tim. What Jason is sure he lacks in basic life skills, he makes up for in _sometimes_ being good company. On the occasion. Perhaps.

It probably helped that Tim had managed to pull a spare rebreather out of basically nowhere tonight and functionally halved the dosage of fear toxin that entered Jason's system, and then stayed with him until he got the antidote administered, despite Jason swinging for anything that moved.

Good kid.

“Quite.” Alfred agreed, voice amused, as if he knew where Jason's train of thought had led him. Jason barely suppressed a scowl at that. “Still, I notice quite a few dishes in here that Master Damian has asked after, and they seem quite less westernised that some I managed to find on the internet.”

“You're welcome to borrow them.” Jason resisted the urge to pick up a knife and fiddle with it, if nothing else then because he wasn't sure if he could handle Alfred deftly plucking it out of his hands and placing it back just like he used to do when Jason was 13 and still fascinated with the sharp objects. “I've got them all memorised anyway.”

“I'd rather appreciate the help instead. Why don't you come to the manor this Friday and help me with dinner, hm?”

Oh.

Jason hadn't cooked in the manor since before he died.

But if there is anything Jason can do there, surely it is the cathartic actions of cooking? The calming influence would perhaps be able to ground him, not to mention the fact that Alfred would surely stay by his side. Alfred had been rather smart in not inviting him to the dinner itself, just coming around to help with it. The _you're welcome to stay_ went unspoken, but also implied that Jason was free to leave whenever he wanted. No obligations to spend any more time there than he wanted to.

Hmm. That. That could possibly, potentially work. Despite getting on better with his so called siblings, he still avoided the manor, and in turn Bruce, like the plague. But that old comfort that it brought still lived in his bones. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad. Maybe he could do this.

If anything could bring him back, it would be cooking with Alfred in the same old kitchen, there again once more. Just like old fucking times.

“Sounds like a plan, Alfie.” His smile doesn't reach his eyes just yet, but he's long since stopped shaking, and he feels oddly light.

Jason Todd has been given a second chance at life. He wagers it's about time he starts living it.

**Author's Note:**

> you can find me at:  
> Tumblr: ace-corvid.tumblr.com  
> Twitter: twitter.com/ace_corvid  
> come yell at me!
> 
> thank you so much for reading, see you next time! And if you enjoyed this, a comment would really make my day!


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